


To Dust Or to Gold

by DiscoCritic



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Danger Days: True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Gen, Masks, Poems, Poetry, The Mailbox, The True Lives Of The Fabulous Killjoys, the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscoCritic/pseuds/DiscoCritic
Summary: in which cherri cola reflects on life and death.





	To Dust Or to Gold

A death in the desert is a curious thing.

Sometimes it's celebrated, the welcome end of a long life spent fighting for a good cause: rebellion against Better Living Industries.

In other cases, it arrives too early. Whisking away young Killjoys, snatching them away from their lives before they are truly ready. It comes in the form of a firefight gone wrong. Of one too many pills. Of a third drink, then a fourth, then too many to count. It comes in the form of cold, calculating exterminators with a thirst of Zone blood.

 _They're taken too soon_ , thinks Cherri Cola, sprinkling a handful of Show Pony-provided glitter over a rotting wooden cross, marking the grave of yet another unnamed rebel. He glances out into the distance, lips pursed, before turning back to the marker. He lays a rose where the wood meets the dirt, and crosses himself before walking away, two masks in his hand.

It's his monthly practice, visiting the graves, and though some parts of him sadden with each return, the rest of him finds a sense of peace in remembering the poor souls. The mask-collecting he does more often, perhaps every two weeks, making a trek two Zones out every time and returning to the Mailbox as soon as possible to free the spirits from this life.

It's a habit now; he's been at it for over two years, since he got clean and managed to set his life straight. Once a month he devotes a few hours to the ones who've traveled on, sometimes bringing a small gift or two to lay at the graves. Dr. D often gives him little trinkets from the station, and Pony contributes something from their bottomless stash of tchotchkes. Tom once even donated a few tealights from the store, in return for Cherri's many extended shifts at the motel.

The day is still and silent; not even a snake slithers by. The only noise comes from the gentle whispers of the wind as it brushes by, like a caress to the cheek. It's quite calming, actually, and he feels he could stay for a while. Outside is where is he writes his best poems; anyway, with the land and what seems like the whole world as his inspiration.

Cherri finds himself already composing a poem in his head as he walks away, a tribute to honor everyone who only exists in memories now.

It's the least he can do.


End file.
